


the sweetness that enthralls

by pinkcupboardwitch



Category: Deathless - Catherynne M. Valente
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 21:50:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcupboardwitch/pseuds/pinkcupboardwitch
Summary: Hatred tastes like sugar.





	the sweetness that enthralls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muffinworry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffinworry/gifts).



Leningrad, 1942.

_“You look older today.“_

_“I have always been old. It is only that you want to see my oldness now.”_

_“If I kissed you, would you become young again?”_

_“I will always be old.”_

_And the kisses she had of Koschei in the dank, moldering cellar were the sweetest kisses of her life, so sweet her teeth hurt._

-

Marya licks the last of the sugar plums off her fingers. "I would like,” she muses, “I would like to hate the world. Hate must make you so strong. Like pitch-bitter black wine, or a leather coat over your shoulders and a leather crop in your hand and leather steel-toed boots to stomp and kick.”

“You are too young to hate the world,” Koschei rejoinders lazily. Specks of sugar glint in his dark beard and the curling black hair on his chest. The furs on their bed spread out behind him like a black and silvery sea.

“When will I be old enough, Kostya?”

“Never.” His mouth moves in a smile. “You will always be young. You will always forgive me.”

Marya too smiles, disbelieving, and bends to kiss him. Hatred tastes like sugar, she decides. Hatred tastes like her husband’s mouth beneath hers. Not bitter at all. A sweetness, secret and aching.

_I will grow old, Koschei Bessmertney_ , a kernel small as a pomegranate seed vows inside her. _Oh! I will grow old. I will grow wise and cruel and bitter, and you will tell me that you love me._

-

Leningrad, 1941.

_He hung there, tears streaking down his face._

_“I love you, Marya.”_

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Baudelaire.


End file.
